


Chase Your Stars Fool

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Baking, Childhood Friends, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Family Issues, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Modern Setting Retelling of Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Past Character Death, Pyramus and Thisbe, Texting, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: Draco's life isn't particularly exciting. He has his studies, he has Pansy, he has his Father. And he has Red Griffin, who he never actually met but who is just as good a friend as Pansy to him now.Actually, Red Griffin might be the most exciting thing about Draco's life. They started talking when Red Griffin texted the wrong number and reached Draco instead of his friend, and somehow (Draco doesn't quite understand how that happened) they continued to talk. Until they landed here, about to meet for the very first time, Draco's stomach tied in knots.Red Griffin is going to change his life, that much Draco is sure of.A Pyramus and Thisbe au
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36
Collections: HP UnHappily Ever After Fest 2020





	Chase Your Stars Fool

**Author's Note:**

> This fic got so much bigger than I expected, and I never could have done it on my own.  
> I owe huge thanks to [Lynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney), [Cigale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CigaleDesNeiges/pseuds/CigaleDesNeiges) and [Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ana_iliad/pseuds/ana_iliad) for listening to my plotting and complaining when the plotting didn't work, for helping me solve minor and major crises while writing this. Special thanks to Jay, who, besides being there for me during the process, also beta-read this fic. Thank you, so much!  
> Another thank you goes at the wonderful mods of this fest, not only for hosting it again but also granting me an extension when I dearly needed it. 
> 
> Chase your stars fool, life is short.  
> \- Atticus

Draco is sure there is some form of social protocol for this kind of situation, some set time he is permitted to wait and hope before it becomes pathetic. He bets Pansy would know. Whether she would share this crucial information with Draco… well, that’s debatable. 

She would likely be highly affronted and demand to know why Draco didn’t tell her sooner. If she believed him at all, that is. Draco isn’t exactly known for his exhilarating dating life. Which of course circles back to his current problem. 

Draco needs more coffee to deal with this. That will also give him a valid reason to be here in case he crossed the line to pathetic already without noticing. He’s not waiting anymore; he’s just enjoying his coffee and gazing out of the window. As one does. Perfectly normal. 

Pansy won’t ever stop laughing at him when she inevitably finds out. 

The coffee-shop is mercifully empty, which means Draco doesn’t have to wait too long for his coffee to be done. Not that the barista doesn’t try to prolong the process as far as possible. Brian (if it _is_ Brian, Draco can’t quite decipher the sprawl that passes as a handwriting, and he fears that asking will only send the wrong signal, starting a conversation is the absolute last thing Draco wants to do) keeps smiling at him, possibly trying to look coy and enticing and hoping Draco will respond in kind. Draco has no intention of doing so. The only reason he hasn’t scared the fool off with a well-measured glare, is that he has full control over Draco’s coffee. Draco doesn't dare give Brian any motivation to tamper with his precious caffeine. 

So, Draco evades the smiles, hides behind his phone and flees back to his table as soon as Brian proudly presents him with the coffee. Draco tries hard not to grimace at the heart Brian somehow managed to create in the foam. He suddenly doesn’t feel quite as pathetic in his waiting anymore. _Draco_ at least realised that, by now, Red Griffin probably isn’t coming anymore. Because Draco can take a hint, unlike _some_ people. 

That actually isn’t a thing to be smug about. So far Draco studiously avoided thinking of Red Griffin’s absence as intentional, as a hint he just refused to pick up yet. Wilful ignorance might be worse than being too blind to see the hint in the first place, now that thinks about it. 

Draco checks the time again. Red Griffin is 15 minutes late. 

It feels like Draco has been waiting significantly longer than that. Not just in the embarrassingly sappy ‘can’t wait to finally meet him in real life’ way that Draco will deny until his last breath, but also in the ‘these chairs are astonishingly uncomfortable considering people are supposed to feel at home here and Brian’s staring is getting more and more unsettling’ way. 

Five more minutes. Draco will wait five more minutes before he leaves and writes some very angry messages. 

Should he even write to Red Griffin at all after this? He is standing Draco up, that probably means he doesn’t want to hear from him again. As clear a sign as it can be. 

But then, Draco _does_ deserve an explanation. A good one too, after suffering through the growing uncertainty of minutes ticking by with no further developments, after _Brian_ , after making Draco _hope_. 

They have been texting almost every day for _months_ now — Red Griffin knows stuff about him not even _Pansy_ knows — and now he can’t be bothered to show up? No, Draco definitely has every right to leave some petty (still dignified though, he refuses to be reduced to crude accusations and name-calling) and scathing messages. 

And if Red Griffin continues to ignore him, well, Draco will decide what he does then when he gets there. 

Draco doesn’t want to leave. All the righteous anger with which he drafted messages just a moment ago feels hollow when faced with the reality of things. The reality, cold and cruel as it is, is that Draco _liked_ Red Griffin. He thought they were friends, that they might have the potential to be more than that even. And yet here Draco sits, utterly alone and Red Griffin now 20 minutes late. 

Still no new messages. 

That is it then. Draco’s first noteworthy foray into dating. Lost alongside his only real friend except Pansy. At least Pansy might be neither teasing nor offended when she learns that Draco just had his heart-broken. 

Right, Draco has waited long enough. It’s either leave now before he really starts to feel sorry for himself or stay where he is, have his little pity-party in public and without ice-cream until he is forcefully thrown out. 

Draco stands up. Chances one last look out of the window. Checks his phone again. 

He is going to need unholy amounts of ice-cream. 

Brian is grinning widely at him. Does the bloke ever give up? Draco resolutely stares his phone. It's blatant and rude and taking his foul mood out at innocent bystanders is probably wrong. Draco doesn’t care anymore; he just wants to get home. 

Draco quickens his pace. Running away instead of doing the mature thing and shoving his feelings down to be polite to the local caffeine-dealer. Not one of his better moments. Good thing Draco decided to stop caring, or this would be mortifying on so many levels. But like this, completely unmoved by his public humiliation, he can text Pansy to come over with more ice-cream because he is sure they — Draco runs into someone. 

He squeaks (hopefully near silent, Draco does _not_ need people to hear that — apparently, he _can_ be further humiliated), almost loses the grip on his phone and dangerously stumbles over his own feet. If he weren’t so preoccupied with falling, Draco would surely have a thing or two to say about the idiot that tripped him and the floundering figure he himself makes. Luckily for the idiot, Draco _is_ too busy to think much. 

Even luckier, he does the chivalrous thing and rescues Draco from the only scenario more spectacular than almost falling: _actually_ falling. 

He has quite nice eyes, Draco's saviour, stunningly expressive and such a deep green that Draco is almost sure they can’t be real. There is something deeply familiar about those eyes, hovering just out of reach for his hopelessly distracted mind. Because now that Draco is suddenly so close to him, held up only by the arm around his waist and the hands steadying him, it’s impossible not to notice that the man is rather handsome in general. His hair is messy but well taken care of, temptingly smooth and made to be grabbed, his glasses are an affront to fashion that Draco wants to tear away and burn, freckles sprinkled like stars over his dark skin. And as if Draco didn’t quite literally swoon already, his smile is just close enough to a smirk to elevate him from simply attractive to fascinating. 

Draco wants to know that person. He wants to count those freckles and hear his laugh and see his full-on smirk. 

The guy frowns at him. Possibly because Draco still hasn’t moved away yet. Because he was too busy staring and making a fool out of himself. Right. Time to be normal and move away, reinstate some appropriate distance and stand on his own feet again. 

Draco’s attempt to slide out of the unfairly comfortable embrace only results in him being pulled closer, being held tighter. Well, Draco didn’t expect that. Not that he minds all that terribly, if he is honest. 

More unsettling, however, is the intensity of those eyes, all focused on him, brilliantly green and achingly familiar, intimate in the strangest of ways. Draco can’t help but feel like he’s missing something, something big and important and probably glaringly obvious. 

“Draco?” 

There is something in way he says it, familiar, almost reverent, and Draco knows that voice, he _does_ — suddenly everything falls into place. Why he seemed so familiar, why he is still holding Draco, why he knows his real name. 

Draco didn’t think he would ever see Harry again. 

* * *

15 Years earlier

"Narcissa! Would you _please_ come and get your thieving son out of my kitchen?" 

Father frowns at him, still holding the knife he just took from Draco. And he calls _him_ a thief! 

See, Draco knows he isn't allowed in the kitchen when Father is cooking. Not if he wasn't invited first. Because the kitchen is a dangerous place and Father doesn't always have time to protect him. Draco _knows_ that, Father told him often enough. Draco is also very bored though, and there is nothing else to do except waiting. Which is _boring_. So, Draco wanted to help Father. 

He doesn't know why he is being glared at. He was careful! He would have been a great help! 

"Why is it that Draco is _my_ son whenever he needs something, but _your_ son when you brag about him?" Mother’s word are annoyed, but she smiles and doesn’t seem to mind Father’s yelling, which is good. Otherwise they would have both started yelling, and then the party would have to be stopped. Draco saw it happening before, his Aunt Bella always yells at _her_ husband and then they all have to leave before Draco can even enjoy his cake. But Mother isn't yelling, so there will be a party and Draco will see Harry again. Harry is far better than Aunt Bella's cake anyway. 

"When will Harry be here, Mother?" 

He really _should_ be here by now — he lives right next door after all! Draco has been waiting all day already, very patient and well-behaved, but he has so much to tell Harry and to show him! Draco has waited long enough. 

“They should be here any minute darling, why don’t you help me set the table?” 

And then Draco is trusted with the _good_ plates — the ones that belonged to Mother’s mother and her mother before that — and carries them carefully out into the garden. He remembers when Father broke one of them, swept it right off the table in one wide gesture, remembers the silence after the sounds of breaking china. Mother was furious, the icy kind of furious, and Draco doesn’t know how Father make it better but he _does_ know that he doesn’t want to make her that angry again. 

That is the only reason Draco doesn’t drop everything the moment he sees Harry coming towards him. He forces himself to walk very slowly towards the table, set the plates down very slowly too, and backs away a few inches before swirling around and running towards Harry. He saw Harry just two days before, Father says that’s not enough time to miss him like this, but Draco thinks Father must be wrong. Because he _did_ miss Harry already and he doesn’t mind that Mother is going to complain about the grass stains or the dirt on his clothes, because hugging Harry is worth falling over. 

Harry never minds dirt anyway, he always has stains on his clothes. He seems to like the dirt, actually. Mother calls Harry a bad influence, because he always gets Draco dirty too, but she smiles when she says it, so Draco knows she isn't really angry. 

"Draco, not in the white shirt please!" 

Maybe Mother is _a little_ angry. She just doesn't understand the importance of greeting Harry properly. That's okay, Harry is _Draco_ 's friend, she doesn't have to understand it. 

But Draco, unlike Mother, does understand the importance of greeting friends properly and Harry's parents count as friends. They bring Harry and make his parents laugh and they are always nice to Draco — they are really good friends. Draco gets up from hugging Harry to shake their hands. Because that is how adults greet each other, very polite. It's stupid, but Draco knows better than to say that and they always smile at him. Draco doesn't mind too much. He shakes their hands and lets Harry's father ruffle his hair and he doesn't ask where Harry's uncles are. He really wants to know, but asking would be rude. Draco doesn't want to be rude. He can ask Harry later.

As soon as all hands are shaken, everyone is greeted and are busy with each other, Draco turns back to Harry. No one will care now if they leave the boring adults and have some fun, as long as they are back when the food is ready. 

Father and Harry's father always argue over who is a better cook, so they have to be back and taste everything and say what is better. They won't make a decision on who is better though, and they set up the next date. Draco learnt not to point that out, Father doesn't like it and Mother laughed too much to stop his speech about winning next time. He hadn't won the next time, but everyone was happy anyway and Draco didn't ask him what happened to the plan. 

And now they are looking at each other, very serious. Draco has better things to do than watch them. 

Much better things actually — there is something he wanted to show Harry! Draco completely forgot in all the excitement, but now that he remembered he can hardly wait to see Harry's reaction. 

Harry follows easily, just as eager to get away from the boring conversation and knowing the steps to his bedroom as well as Draco. After all, Harry is his friend. Draco made it a point to show Harry every corner of his home. Even if not, Harry spent enough time here to know anyway. 

As well as Harry might know Draco’s room though, there is always something new for him to discover. Because Draco doesn’t want him to become bored once he has seen everything, and because Draco knows how to talk his parents into buying him all the best toys. When Draco opens the door to his room and Harry suddenly stands still and stares, he knows exactly what Harry is looking at. And he is extremely proud. 

Draco always wanted a doll house, an entire world of people he could make do whatever he wants. Father didn’t understand, offered him all the wrong houses, but Draco finally found the perfect one. It’s a castle, really, build of stones and with many towers, moving staircases and scary ghosts. 

Harry is properly impressed. Draco can’t resist showing him everything. 

* * *

“Okay, let me see if I got all of this.” 

Pansy sets her mug down and sits up out of the slouch. She looked almost melted into the couch like that, comforting and unassuming, simply absorbing what Draco had to say without judging or interjecting. This though, posture frighteningly straight and eyes calculating, picking Draco apart and searching him for whatever she still needs to know, this is clearly judgement about to be passed. 

“You have been steadily writing with this mysterious person who you knew nothing about.” Pansy doesn’t require an answer, she is still at the fact stating part, not yet venturing into guessing at the workings of Draco’s mind. Draco nods anyway. 

“You then set up a date with this bloke, without telling _anyone_ where you were going or who you were meeting, well aware that if Prince Charming turned out to be some kind of weird psycho who planned on abducting you none of us would even know where to start looking for you.” 

Again, not a question. The ‘ _you complete and utter moron_ ’ goes unsaid as well. For now, at least, there will be plenty of lecturing on that one later. Draco dreads it already. Pansy is right though, that is exactly what he did. Draco nods again. 

“Prince Charming who first couldn’t be bothered to show up in time and then turned out to be — your childhood best friend? Who moved away after you had some sort of fight?” 

_Now_ Pansy is definitely asking. Fair enough, Draco himself isn’t entirely sure of the details yet. 

It seems straightforward enough, actually pretty much as Pansy so wonderfully summarised. A few more unimportant details, like Harry’s return to study here or the fact that he was late because he took a nap and overslept, his phone forgotten at home as he raced to meet Draco — little things that add to the mystery instead of explaining it. They don’t help Draco wrapping his head around the revelations of today. 

Draco still remembers the day Harry left, used to have nightmares about it. He wasn’t informed. He never asked whether his parents didn’t know either or if they thought he would be better off in ignorance, but no one saw fit to tell Draco that his best friend was going to leave forever. Well, as close to forever as children can comprehend, that is, since Harry evidently returned. 

“It wasn’t a _fight._ We never fought.” 

Draco feels like that is important information — he doesn’t want Pansy to get the wrong impression here — but Pansy only raises her eyebrow, unimpressed. That clearly was not the detail she needed more clarification on. “There was an … accident, and I got hurt. Father decided I should never see him again.”

That sounds bad. Really, incredibly, dreadfully bad. Too much room for interpretation. Draco realises that too late, when Pansy stares at him in horror. 

“We were at one of the playgrounds because they had a swing and we were trying to swing as high as possible to see —” Actually, Pansy doesn’t need to know that much. It feels too personal to share with her, which is ridiculous because she is _Pansy_. But this is something for only them, for Harry and him, and Draco doesn’t want Pansy to laugh at him. “I don’t remember _why_ , but I was swinging high and then I fell. It was all very dramatic. Harry called for help I think, refusing to leave my side and yelling until someone thought to check the noise, apologising all the time and reassuring me that it was going to be alright again. In the hospital they told us that I had broken my arm, that I should be lucky that it was only my arm and not my head. 

“Harry felt so guilty about it. It didn’t quite register back then because I was too preoccupied with my own pain, but he felt responsible and father blaming him only solidified what Harry himself already feared. Father completely freaked out, screamed at Harry and his parents and declared him a danger to be around and that he didn’t want us to have anything to do with each other anymore. 

“They moved out soon after that. I don’t know for sure if father is responsible for that or not, but they moved away and I haven’t seen him since.” And now Harry is back, and Draco doesn't know how he feels about that. 

“That at least explains why your father is as overprotective as he is.” Pansy smiles, more of a grimace really, but Draco appreciates her efforts. 

“Well, _that_ , and then of course mother —” and Draco doesn’t even know why he brought her up because talking about _that_ is the absolute last thing he wants to do right now. Besides, Pansy already knows about it, so it’s not like Draco has to fill her in on that. No, Pansy was right there, for the shock, the tears, the bitter arguments, the uneasy truce of avoidance they have since settled into. 

Thankfully, Pansy knowing what happened means she also knows the topic is … sensitive. Pansy might tease and prod more than he would like — no sense for personal boundaries, that one — but she isn’t cruel. She doesn’t press. 

“Let’s plan how you two lovebirds can meet without him knowing then!” 

Draco grimaces at her word choice but he swallows the reflex to protest. More than affronted over being called something as ridiculous as a ‘lovebird’, he is grateful to her. Immensely grateful, beyond words, for her unwavering presence and support at his side. Draco doesn’t know what he would ever have done without her. So, he doesn’t protest, he exaggerates his distaste and lets her laughs at him and thanks every power in the universe that she is here. 

Pansy is already scheming, proposing different methods and approaches and completely unbothered by Draco’s lack of participation. It’s not needed anyway, Pansy is brilliant at what she does, she’ll present Draco with an elegant and easy solution to all his problems soon enough. 

While Pansy figures out the details, Draco is only really certain of one thing anyway: he doesn’t want to let Harry go again. 

* * *

Wednesday morning 

(7:55) _So, funny story?_

(7:55) _I went to bed extra early so I wouldn’t be late for class again because Snape is just waiting for me to mess up. why couldn’t we send him a poisonous snake again???_

(7:56) _then I woke up in the middle of the night because I went to sleep too early and I couldn’t go back to sleep for the longest time_

(7:56) _then I missed my alarm and overslept_

(7:56) _because of course that is what happened_

(7:56) _o cruel irony, how I long for your sweetness back_

(7:57) _anyway, save me a seat?_

(7:57) _also, have you seen my jumper? you know the red one, big gold griffin on the front, wonderfully warm?_

  


(8:01) No. 

(8:01) You also used the term poisonous incorrectly. Unless you did indeed intent for your professor to eat the snake? A common mistake, to be sure, but wrong nonetheless.

(8:02) That jumper sounds like an atrocity and should stay lost, for the sake of everyone who has to see you. 

  


(8:03) _Neville?_

  


(8:04) Obviously not. If you would kindly refrain from texting now, random stranger who didn’t get the hint, I have actual work to do. 

  


(8:04) _just stop answering, random stranger who is shockingly passive-aggressive_

(8:04) _and you are wrong about my jumper, it’s fantastic and was obviously stolen by someone jealous_

  


(8:05) I don’t trust the fashion sense of people who a) use words as shockingly incorrect as you did and show no remorse or will to learn, b) indulge in petty squabble with their professor, and c) think that red and gold are acceptable colours to mix. 

  


(8:06) _oxford comma, impressive_

(8:06) _you mean the poisonous thing? because that was weird and I have no idea what you were talking about_

(8:06) _the snake would obviously bite him, the poison would take effect and Snape would be unable to teach for as long as it takes me to get my degree_

(8:07) _no one would be able to prove a thing, it’s the perfect crime_

  


(8:07) What’s impressive is that you know what the oxford comma is. One wouldn’t think so, judging by your utter disregard for grammar so far. 

(8:07) No matter how often you protest it, you are wrong about the meaning of poisonous. Plus, even if your plan wasn’t dim-witted and doomed to failure because of your ignorance, you just confessed every detail to me. I would not hesitate for a second to hand you over to the police. 

(8:08) Thankfully, I won’t have to sacrifice my precious time for that though, as poisonous snakes are perfectly harmless until consumed. 

  


(8:08) _first, I can’t believe you would abuse my trust like that! hand me over to the police they say, I thought we were bonding!_

(8:08) _also, what?_

  


(8:09) You mean venomous snakes, not poisonous. There’s a difference, you know? An important one. 

  


(8:09) _enlighten me then, o wise one_

  


(8:09) I like that title, though I sense a hint of inappropriate sarcasm. 

(8:10) Venom, to be effective, has to be directly injected. Poison, on the other hand, can be absorbed, consumed, or inhaled. 

  


(8:10) _huh, I guess I did mean venomous snakes then_

(8:11) _don’t go and feel all smug about it now though, you pointed out a crucial mistake in my plans which makes you an accomplice_

  


(8:11) I merely educated you, it’s none of my business what you do with that knowledge. 

  


(8:11) _I don’t think that will impress the police. as you yourself pointed out, I did tell you my entire plan and plausible deniability really only goes so far_

(8:12) _and this is my stop, talk to you later if Snape doesn’t bite my head off for being late!_

  


(8:12) It would serve you right, our society is built on the mutual understanding of plans being kept. Being punctual is part of the deal. 

  


(8:12) _rude_

(8:12) _and pretentious_

(8:13) _whose side are you even on??_

(8:13) _leaving now, pray for me!_

  


(8:13) I won’t. Go and face your deserved punishment. 

* * *

Draco is gaping. It’s not a flattering expression, he is painfully aware, but the thinks he can be forgiven for that one, all things considered. Plus, Harry isn’t looking too good either. (Who is he kidding, Harry looks fantastic even in his befuddlement, that git.) His hand is still raised to knock — because he couldn’t just ring the bell on the front door like a normal person, apparently — and he stares at Draco as if he didn’t expect to see him here. 

Which is ridiculous. _Harry,_ after all, is the one between the two of them who saw this coming. It probably would have been Harry’s responsibility to prepare something to talk about, too. They could have avoided this awkward misery if at least one of them would have been well-organised. It’s the whole reason Draco hadn’t contacted Harry himself; he didn’t know what to say. Pansy had some ideas, some more reasonable than others, but nothing Draco felt appropriate for … whatever this whole mess even is. 

“Draco …” That just isn’t fair. Draco already has a hard time thinking past Harry — Harry, who used to be the best thing in his life; Harry, who suddenly disappeared; Harry, who he missed and _missed_ and didn’t think he would ever see again; Harry, who stands right here on his doorstep — and Harry saying his name like that, wrapped in too much meaning to even start and decipher, well, it’s distracting. 

And not something Draco wants to deal with standing in the doorway, neither in nor out and his father closer than would be comfortable. Draco would rather he doesn’t hear about this before he doesn’t at least know what _this_ is. 

“I’ll be right back, wait here.” Draco sounds shaky to his own ears, closed the door too fast to be reassuring, everything about this screaming flustered lie. 

But Harry was ready to protest, he had that stubborn look on his face, jaw clenched and frowning, signalling for anyone who knows him at least a little that he has a _plan_ and that he is determined to see it through. 

Draco remembers the expression well, fond memories of stolen ice cream and trips their parents were reluctant to let them go on, and Draco _knows_ he would cave if he allowed Harry to talk for long enough, no matter how ill-advised it might be. Therefore, Draco really had no other choice but to slam the door in his face. 

Because Harry’s plan might work well enough for _him_ , but if Draco is forced to have this conversation, he will have it on his own terms and with his own plan. 

* * *

Draco is willing to admit, he probably could have chosen a better setting for this conversation. Not only is this the place where Draco was forced to re-evaluate his entire relationship with Red Griffin, who then turned out to be Harry, which consequently made Draco flee (for lack of a better word, though he hopes it didn’t look quite as terrified as the word suggests) but Brian is working again, too. He has been scowling at Harry since they came in, making absolutely no efforts to hide and stare in secret but instead glaring openly and exclusively at Harry. 

It might be flattering to be fought over like this, if Draco felt anything but annoyance for the boy. Instead, Draco doesn't feel like talking at all, twitchy and observed, and not even coffee is going to fix that. Especially not subpar coffee prepared by someone who is far too invested in Draco’s life. 

Draco wanted to do the noble, selfless thing and suffer in stoic silence while Harry drank his coffee and dragged them out of here after that. But Harry hasn’t even looked at his coffee yet, too busy fiddling with a napkin and throwing occasional glares back at Brian. Draco doesn’t need to bother being considerate when all it gets him is being treated like air — or worse: a lunch obligation with that one awful relative everyone hates but is too polite to decline. Draco might have preferred not to have this conversation, but it’s unavoidable and will only get worse over time. Pansy pointed that out, which means it’s very likely correct regardless of how little Draco likes it. 

“If you are done utterly ignoring me in favour of flirting with the barista, I would like to leave.” Draco might be a little more hurt than he realised. Judging by Harry’s bewildered face, he _might_ have overreacted. But at least Harry is looking at _him_ now, not stupid Brian, and Draco can’t help feel satisfied with that result. 

“I thought you wanted to come here? Because you aren’t comfortable talking at your place. _You_ chose this.” Harry sounds something between accusing and confused, not ideal to have serious discussions in, even if Draco wasn’t already itching to get out of here. 

“Yes, and now I changed my mind.” 

Harry frowns at him. This is not how Draco thought this would happen at all. This is going horribly wrong. “Is that concept difficult to understand for you?” 

They stare at each other. It’s stupid, most likely, but it feels important that Draco isn’t the first to look away, to back down. 

They used to play this game all the time, squabbling over heaven knows what, trying to trick the other into looking away first. It’s this habit that Draco blames his intimate familiarity with Harry’s eyes on, the deep chilling green littered with golden sparks, their warmth and the way they actually brighten when he laughs — Draco has a lifetime of memories of Harry’s eyes, neatly stacked away with everything else about him. 

Draco is screwing this up, isn’t he? This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to be _fighting_. Draco planned on being interesting and charming and funny, on making sure Harry wouldn’t want to leave again. Instead here they are, caught in the most juvenile game humanity has ever invented, because Draco decided to throw a tantrum and pout. 

That much for being mature and doing the right though uncomfortable thing. 

“Fine, if your highness wants to leave, we can leave.” Harry grumbles, breaking their eye contact and standing up. Draco misses him immediately. 

But Harry doesn’t go far, barely away at all. He just goes to the door, holding it open and looking at Draco expectantly. Waiting for him. 

Well, Draco could never deny Harry, not really. He doesn’t even try here, not when they both want the same thing. 

* * *

“The playground, seriously? You couldn’t think of _anywhere_ better to go?” Somewhere with less obnoxiously loud and laughing children around maybe, something not as drenched in memories. 

“Come on, don’t even pretend you don’t like it here. We always had fun, didn’t we?” Harry is right, and he knows it too. Draco doesn’t mind this nearly as much as he thought he would. 

It’s not like he has been _avoiding_ coming here without Harry, not exactly. There simply was no reason to be here, too old for playgrounds and too busy for sentimentality. Standing here again, Harry smiling at him with that very same excited smile, Draco feels like no time passed at all. 

Except that time obviously passed, reality invading at all edges. Perhaps the most jarring: the swing feels significantly less safe under him, designed for children and not almost adults currently suffering great emotional disarray. It felt bigger when Draco was last here, safer before he fell. 

“Do you remember how high we could swing on this thing? Always looking for exotic lands we could run away to and explore.” 

Draco does remember, with the same aching fondness he hears in Harry's voice. Draco was convinced they would travel the whole world together, one day. Then Harry left, without him and Draco's world got smaller and smaller. 

"I missed you, you know?" Draco didn't mean to say it; not like this, maybe not ever. It's obvious anyway, a truth that doesn't have to be spoken. 

Harry is awfully quiet. Draco doesn't know what he expected him to answer, but it certainly wasn't damning silence. 

He _really_ wishes he hadn't said it now. If there is one thing that makes emotional revelations more awkward than they already are, it's if the whole misery is one-sided. _This_ is why they needed to talk, Draco could have spared himself the mortification and they could have parted under the pretension of meeting up again soon. Maybe they actually _would_ have met again, if Harry hasn't changed too much from the boy he was. 

"Well, anyway, I suppose we should —" Draco doesn't even know what he is saying. All he knows is that he can't stand the silence, doesn't want to hear the empty space where Harry was supposed to admit to his own feelings. Positive, I-missed-you-too feelings, if Draco had his pick. 

It hurts, to think that to Harry their friendship didn't (or doesn't anymore, Draco doesn't want to contemplate which is worse) hold the same importance as it did (and, infuriatingly, still does) to Draco. 

Suddenly there is a hand on his mouth, Harry looking at him with a grave sincerity that renders Draco helpless to do anything but listen. 

There is a small part of him still conscious enough to recognise that Harry shutting him up is a _good_ thing. Not only does Draco shamelessly enjoy every chance to be close to Harry, but it also means that he stopped spewing what he can only hope was utter nonsense. With the graceful tact Harry recently displayed, it's unlikely he was lucky enough to just ramble for a bit before Harry took mercy on him; it's more likely he revealed some more embarrassing feelings. 

"Shut up, would you?" Usually Draco would not tolerate being talked to like this (or _he_ would be the one saying it), but Harry is smiling at him and it's fond and intimate and Harry is really close, his hand warm where he touches Draco and Draco is uncomfortably aware of his breathing, all fast and heavy— he really can't concentrate enough to be indignant right now. 

"I missed you too, Draco. You don't even want to know how long I insisted we go back and take you with us. And I felt so bad about hurting you — you know I didn't mean to do that, right? I meant to apologise sooner, I did, but I didn't exactly expect to see you and then you were being weird and you are _still_ weird and I don't want, I don't know, mess this up? Because I missed you and I liked talking to you even when I didn't know it was _you_ and now I —" Harry presumably could ramble on a lot more, but Draco had heard enough. 

Harry must have planned this; Draco realises with some tiny part of his mind that still works rationally. He is pressing closer than strictly needed to silence him, eyes blazing and stunningly earnest, saying all those wonderful fantastic mostly nice things — he couldn't possibly expect Draco _not_ to kiss him. He wanted to all day, wanted since he saw Harry again in that coffee-shop and didn't even fully connect the attractive man to the beloved childhood friend or the yearned for stranger on the phone. Draco has wanted to kiss Harry for too long to resist the urge anymore. 

The kiss is more awkward than Draco imagined, Harry's glasses digging into his face uncomfortably, their hands entangled and forgotten somewhere in the air where Draco moved them away from his mouth, his other hand aimless and cumbersome. No, it's not what Draco imagined it would be like, but Harry is kissing him back, warm and insistent and with the same yearning that steadily built in Draco. Harry is here and he pulls Draco closer with an arm around his waist, pulls their hands closer again like it's the most natural thing that they should be holding hands, grounding Draco in this moment in time and carrying him away beyond his most daring dreams. It's stumbling and fumbling and too desperate, and it's the closest to perfect a first kiss can be.

"Hey! There are children here! Keep the PDA to a minimum, please." 

Draco flinches away at the shout.

He completely forgot that they are not only in public — which would be bad enough — but on a _playground_. There is a certain level of passion decency forbids you to cross in situations like this. Harry and him ran right past that. With Harry grinning at him, holding him close despite their rude interruption without a care in the world, Draco doesn't regret a thing. 

"Look at us, corrupting the youth." Harry says proudly, a wicked smirk on his lips and no sign of letting Draco go any time soon. Draco would agree with that plan in a heartbeat, actively encourage it in fact, were it not for the awareness of people all around then. Once become aware, it's near impossible to ignore the burning stares and whispers. Playgrounds are apparently only a good place to make out after dark. Draco notes that down to exploit later. 

“Let’s go somewhere more private?” Draco realises too late how that sounds, the implications of his question sinking in with Harry’s delighted laughter, and he is sure he blushes that awful blotchy red Pansy promised him she could train him out of (she couldn’t, of course, and now Harry is never going to stop laughing at him). 

“Alright, though I think a little bit of public indecency wouldn’t hurt these people.” Then Harry drops a kiss on his nose casually, as if he did that a million times before. Before Draco can fully comprehend what happened Harry is gone again, grinning at him and still holding his hand, pulling him away from the playground and the people. “On to something less public to be salacious and indecent then.” 

Draco doesn’t know what Harry has in mind, but right now, he would follow him anywhere. 

* * *

Wednesday afternoon

(4:36) _Neville had my jumper_

(4:36) _stole it right from my pile of clean clothes and had the audacity to wear it to class today_

(4:36) _was all smug about it too, that bastard_

  


(4:45) Whatever I did that made you think I require or would appreciate an update on your life, you misinterpreted that. Rather badly. Unless your news is that that hideous jumper was rightfully burned, I don’t care. 

(4:45) What’s even more concerning than your choice of clothes, however, is how you store them. Your ‘ _clean clothes pile’_? Please tell me you don’t _seriously_ throw all your clothes together on one big pile. Lie, if you have to. 

  


(4:47) _I thought you don’t care?_

(4:47) _pretend to be reluctant all you like, but you just showed your cards there_

(4:47) _you are lucky I’m gracious and willing to entertain you despite your rudeness_

(4:47) _I stand by what I said, that jumper is absolutely amazing and you are just jealous_

(4:48) _clearly Neville agrees, what with having stolen it_

(4:48) _and he actually saw it so his word counts more than yours, scrambling lies as they are_

(4:48) _I have two_ _piles of clothes, thank you very much_

(4:49) _one for clean and one for dirty clothes, it’s the perfect system_

  


(4:50) It’s barely a system at all and a far cry from anything one might call perfect. What exactly is it about hanging your clothes in a closet like any normal person that is so abhorrent to you?

(4:51) Neville is obviously no more qualified to judge fashion than you are, his words are worth nothing. 

  


(4:51) _anything that might be considered normal is abhorrent to me_

(4:51) _honestly though I just couldn’t be bothered to move the pile into my closet, sue me_

(4:52) _it’s still a perfectly fine system and I won’t have you slander it_

(4:52) _I can measure the clean amount of clothes against the dirty amount and judge the perfect moment to do laundry_

  


(4:52) Somehow, I have trouble believing you do more than impassively watch the piles shift, completely missing the ‘perfect moment to do laundry’ and postponing it until it can be no longer postponed. 

  


(4:53) _…_

(4:53) _fine, there might be a few gaps in the plan_

(4:53) _what gives you the right to judge anyway, I bet you are no better, you just hide it behind fancy cupboard doors_

  


(4:54) I am better, as it so happens. 

(4:54) Other than you, I am capable of installing and maintaining a functioning system to organise my clothes and laundry. 

(4:55) We can’t all be all be content to live in our own filth. 

  


(6:03) I have hurt your feelings. I apologise. I didn’t mean to. 

(6:03) I’m sure it’s not quite as bad as I made it out to be. 

  


(6:36) _don’t worry, you didn’t_

(6:36) _just had to save my stupid friend from his freak out_

(6:36) _going on the first date with the love of his life, you understand_

(6:37) _I don’t actually care all that much what you think of me, you know_

  


(6:37) Right, of course you don’t. 

(6:38) Well, I’m glad you were able to help your friend. 

  


(6:39) _oh come on, don’t pout_

  


(6:40) I most certainly am doing no such thing! 

  


(6:41) _clearly_

(6:41) _besides, how could I trust your judgement if you refuse to acknowledge the brilliancy of my jumper??_

  


(6:42) That is precisely why you should value my opinion. I seem to be the only one qualified here, if your friends agree with your error in judgement. 

  


(6:42) that's _where you’re wrong, this jumper is my pride and joy_

(6:43) _you should be sad you can’t see it, it makes everyone's life better by simply being in it_

  


(6:43) If I ever have to see that monstrosity, I might have to gauge my eyes out. 

  


(6:43) _sure, if that is what you have to tell yourself to compensate the loss_

(6:44) _whatever helps you sleep at night_

  


(6:44) You are infuriating. And wrong. Infuriating in your wilful blindness. 

  


(6:45) _very handsome in my ignorance and jumper too_

(6:45) _unfortunately, while I would love to spend my evening pointing out all the ways you are the one in the wrong here, I have to go_

(6:46) _my friends date was just cancelled because she unexpectedly has to work late today and now I have to convince him that it’s rotten luck and not a gentle rejection_

  


(6:46) You could argue the rest of your life and it wouldn’t change the simple fact that you are biased and incapable of passing objective judgement on the state of your jumper. 

  


(6:47) _the beauty of it is that I don’t have to be objective_

(6:47) _clothes are so very subjective I'm offended you would demand anything else_

(6:47) _but I accept the challenge, I will change your mind!_

(6:48) _you’ll feel very stupid then, mark my words_

  


(6:48) I doubt that, you are not as convincing as you seem to think you are. 

(6:48) Didn’t you say you had to go and console a friend? 

  


(6:49) _right! I should really go before he calls her and leaves her a message we’ll all be embarrassed about later_

  


(6:49) Good luck! 

* * *

“Where do you think you are going, young man?” Draco inwardly sighs. For a second there he thought he managed to sneak back in past his father. Apparently, he was wrong. 

Draco turns around, wearing the most innocent expression he can muster, preparing himself for the interrogation that is to come. 

His father is sitting in his armchair like it’s a throne, the living room illuminated by only one lamp for dramatic effect. This is going to be a Lesson then, as always impeccably timed when Draco has the least patience to bear with his father over-protectiveness. 

“I don’t remember you telling me you would be going out.” His father raises an eyebrow in challenge, clearly expecting Draco to fumble for an excuse or beg for forgiveness immediately. Draco wants to tell him that he didn’t hear anything because he plain _didn’t tell him_. He can’t say that though, the consequences would be dreadful and Draco made sure to tell him for that reason exactly. 

_Technically_ tell him, at least. 

When Draco left his father was deeply immersed in his studies. He even wore the glasses he is too vain to wear if there is any chance at all of him doing something besides sticking his nose into dusty books and thus be seen. Draco knew it would take a lot to break his concentration, something he didn’t want to do in the first place, so he quietly mumbled something about going out to meet a friend, accepted the absent-minded warnings to be careful and quickly left before his father realised he just allowed Draco to basically do anything. 

It seems he realised it by now, and he is _furious_. 

Even faced with his father’s anger, Draco doesn’t regret a second spent with Harry. He can still feel the tingle on his skin where Harry dropped kisses along his neck, remembers the warmth of Harry’s body pressed against his, the laugh and the nib at his ear before Draco finally managed to push him away and say goodbye. Today was one of the happiest days on Draco’s life and sending Harry away was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t risk his father finding them making out like horny teenagers. This confrontation would be worse if he knew Draco was on a _date_ , that Harry is back again and Draco deliberately chose not to inform him. 

No, Draco might quickly become addicted to making Harry smile and kissing his unfairly handsome face, but he is by no means stupid. 

“I went out with Pansy. Sorry, I thought I told you.” Draco smiles, hopes the lie is convincing enough to stop further questioning. 

_Logically_ it’s the only answer his father could have been expecting, Pansy is pretty much the only contact he approves of. Draco still doesn’t know how exactly she managed that — Pansy has the magically ability to make people think she is a living saint just as easily as she can scare them into crying. 

His father shouldn’t be too suspicious of her. Plus, he doesn’t expect Draco to lie to him, therefore he isn’t looking for signs of it. So far the theory, at least. 

If Draco read the situation right — and he is rather sure he did, but he still feels a little dazed and giddy so who knows anymore — his father just wants to see some grovelling and to give a speech on the dangers of being out after dark. Draco should simply let him say whatever he needs to say to sooth his worries. Usually he would, but today feels too precious to be shadowed by a guilty father figure. Draco sincerely hopes they can call it an early night. 

"That's all the apology I am to expect? A lazy 'thought I told you'? You might not understand this, but as your father it's my _duty_ to —" 

No such luck. Draco had been so close, too. Just a few more steps and he could have been in his room right now, sheltered behind the safety of closed doors and calling Pansy to let her beg him for details about his date. 

"— because I _worry_ about you enough without your awful tendency to recklessness— " 

Draco has to suppress a snort at that. Reckless, _him_. The thought is ludicrous. 

Harry almost fell asleep when Draco told him what his days usually look like (it was less funny then, Draco still feels somewhat insecure about that, not that _now_ is a great time to ponder that) and then he got that dangerous glint in his eyes that, as far as Draco remembers, always meant trouble. He can hardly wait to see what Harry comes up with to save him from this endless wasteland. 

This one Draco will have to do himself though, no dashing hero in sight to rescue him from his father's preaching. Besides, Draco doesn't like how that automatically casts him as the damsel in distress, trapped in a high tower of boredom and yearning for someone coming to the rescue. Draco refuses to be that useless. 

"I got it, thanks! Now you listen to me. I followed all your rules, I told you I was leaving, I had my phone with me and I'm home before dark — what more do you want? You are trying to protect me, I understand that by now, but you can't keep me locked in here forever. I'm going to leave eventually, whether you like it or not, and right now nothing is more tempting than going straight back out of that door." For one glorious moment, everything is silent. 

Draco is aware of every breath he takes, how close to _gaping_ his father's expression is, how _light_ he feels. Then Draco leaves, turns right around and leaves his father standing in dawning realisation. Draco doesn't want to give him enough time to come up with an answer, not when he finally said what he should have said ages ago. Not when he can't stop smiling. 

* * *

"Tell me _everything_!" Pansy is positively screeching, the picture of hysterical glee, pulling him down onto the bed as soon as he closes the door behind himself, as if she can pry on all his secrets as long as they sit close enough. Which might be the case actually, they have a tradition of confessing dark secrets and inner most desires, sharing with each other what they wouldn't dream of sharing with anyone else. He has told Pansy more than he thought there was to tell, sitting exactly like this, huddled under the cover of their blanket fort. 

Draco should have expected her to be here, that’s what he gets for using her as a cover. At least she had the foresight of climbing in through the window, an escape route long since perfected to avoid his father’s eyes. Draco probably should have done the same, come to think of it. But then, he never quite figured out how he manages it and, in the end, heaving himself through a window seemed riskier than just using the front door. 

Unexpected as Pansy is, Draco finds he doesn’t actually mind her presence here. Pansy always made it easier for him to ignore negative things, get over the anger for his father or the feelings of being trapped in this house. 

“No, wait a second.” The look of pure horror on Pansy’s face makes Draco stop in an instant. What is wrong? Did he forget something? Did something happen? “What are you _wearing_?” 

The jumper. Harry’s ugly, horrid, red and golden with a huge, obnoxiously grinning griffin on the front jumper. Draco hoped to never see that thing, never even in his nightmares imagined _wearing_ it, and yet here he stands, exposed to Pansy’s judgement. It doesn’t help that the jumper is cosy and warm, everything Harry claimed it to be, and _Harry’s_. Draco had completely forgotten that he is still wearing the hideous thing, possibly on purpose when he said goodbye to Harry but genuinely while avoiding his father’s questions. Come to think of it, it’s a testament to how angry his father must have been that he didn’t comment. 

“In my defence — it’s not mine.” That doesn’t actually make anything better. Draco is still wearing it; which casts doubt upon not only his sense of style but also his common sense. 

“Don’t force me to _make_ you answer, Malfoy. Whose monstrosity is that and why are you wearing it? Also, smile for the camera.” Pansy has a lamentable fondness of taking pictures of his lowest moments, and while Draco should be accustomed to the particular look that always appears on her face before she tells him to smile, he can never prevent it from happening. 

“It’s Harry’s, if you have to know.” Not much of a confession, considering how she would have reached that conclusion on her own if she had just _thought_ about it for a moment. 

“Let me guess, you were freezing and Harry swooped in and saved you by lending you his jumper.” That is actually exactly what happened, as sappy and grossly maudlin it sounds. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Draco answers and Pansy cackles like some maniac who just won the lottery. 

He is sulking, he knows that, but he really _doesn't_ want to talk about it. Pansy would make fun of them; of that he is sure. Because she hasn’t seen Harry’s earnest eyes, or the smile when he appraised Draco’s new appearance — Draco is selfish enough not to want to share with her either. 

“Fine, alright, then don’t.” Pansy has calmed down somewhat, now smirking like the cat that got the cream, a familiar expression Draco seldom appreciated less. “Tell me about the rest of your date.” 

"There really isn't much to tell. After a misguided beginning at the coffee-shop we decided to steer clear of confined spaces and company and wandered around for a bit, revisiting childhood memories and all that." Carefully casual, as if his day with Harry had been nothing more than that, as if it could be contained in such small words. 

The truth could not be more contrasting. Draco still feels light-headed, breaking out in smiles for no apparent reason and relating seemingly everything to memories of their date and thoughts of Harry. Draco has never been happier. 

"Oh, come on, don't tease. I will get the details out of you eventually, you know that. It would be much easier if you would just tell me now." Pansy is right, that would be easier. However, it would also be less fun for Draco. 

This is one of the rare cases where Draco actually _wants_ to share what Pansy is so desperately trying to learn. Draco has all the power here, can make _her_ squirm for a change. Draco fully intends to exploit that opportunity. 

“It was nice, a literal walk through our history. We saw all the important spots, everything that formed the people we are today. Well, almost, everything that makes up _me_ , at least. Harry promised to show me around his own city though, tell me what I missed. Of course, we’ll have to travel there, for the full effect. Pictures just aren’t the same, you know?” Pansy doesn’t know, Draco is sure. She has never been sentimental in that way, doesn't define what’s important to her through objects and locations, that has always been more Draco. She nods nonetheless, probably to keep him talking. Unfortunately for her, Draco knows her too well to be tricked; he won’t make it quite this easy for her. He doesn’t elaborate. 

“When you say all the important spots, does that mean … I mean, did you visit …” Oh no. Pansy stuttering is not a good thing, never ever good, and Draco dreads what she is about to say. “Have you been to the graveyard?” 

Draco really should have expected this question. But then, it shouldn’t be this difficult anymore either, and Draco still feels like he stands way too close to the edge, one subtle nudge enough to push him back down into the grief and the pain. Maybe he never truly got out, just got better at pretending. 

“Yes, of course we did. It’s impossible to avoid.” In every sense of the word, though Draco hopes Pansy will focus on the location being central and not the lasting emotional trauma. “Then we walked on and had waffles.” 

It was quite a bit more complicated than that, of course. Draco never told him about his mother’s death, reduced the tension between him and his father to nothing more but the usual conflict between parents and their children. Harry still doesn’t know about that part, the role his father played, but Harry is clever and empathic and he put together enough not to ask, to offer silent support and catch Draco when the reality of her grave became too much for him. It’s not the he didn’t cry for her, he hardly did anything else these first few days, but kneeling on the hard floor, her absence loud and cold, it felt like the first time he realised what the word ‘dead’ means all over again. 

Harry didn’t make demands of him, didn’t complain that Draco was ruining the mood on their date or that he didn’t warn Harry how fragile he is. No, Harry just sat down next to him, like it’s the most normal thing, and pulled him into his arms. 

Draco doesn’t know how long they stayed like that, only that in the end Harry’s shirt was soaked in his tears, his legs were numb from sitting in the same position too long and despite all that, Draco felt lighter than he could remember ever feeling. In that moment, Draco never wanted to move again. He would have gladly stayed right there, held securely in Harry’s arms, surrounded by his warmth and shielded from the entire world. 

Naturally, that is exactly when his stomach decided it’s been too long since he last ate something, growling loudly and breaking the little bubble Harry built for them. Harry didn’t mind, laughing and chasing away the last shreds of sorrow, because apparently, he’s perfect like that. (Not that Draco told him that, he humiliated himself quite enough for that day.)

“Right, obviously you did.” The silence is uncomfortable. 

Draco doesn’t know what to say, Pansy clearly doesn’t want to make the situation worse, and his mother’s ghost is casting a dark shadow. They battled many of these interludes shortly after it happened, when Draco wasn’t good at hiding his pain and Pansy thought forcing him to talk about it would help him. They have since gotten better at navigating them, but they also stopped appearing so frequently and Draco feels out of practice. 

“So, did you kiss him?” It’s the kind of crude question Draco would usually refuse to answer out of principle, but as it so happens, he _did_ kiss Harry, he _does_ want to talk about it, and he is immensely grateful to Pansy for breaking the tension. 

* * *

There are pancakes waiting for him on the table. Draco didn't expect that. Sullen silences, maybe, awkward manoeuvring around each other — not an _apology_. 

His father is furiously concentrating on the newspaper, eyes unmoving as he blatantly avoids Draco. It would be easy to accept the pancakes for what they are, the silent apology his father doesn't know how to speak. All Draco has to do is sit down with him at the table and let the confrontation of yesterday sink into oblivion.

This is what they have always done, chocolate chip pancakes serving as substitute for a conversation neither of them wants to have. They don't _talk_ about these things — uncomfortable, difficult things — instead his father gives up on his disdain for unhealthy breakfast ( _the most important meal of the day, Draco)_ and allows Draco a rare indulgence of his sweet tooth. 

Sometimes, in moments of despicable self-awareness, Draco worries what that habit did to his own abilities to handle emotions, if they indeed left him impaired in some way or if reluctance to admit to mistakes is indeed a common phenomenon. It must be, Draco can't imagine anyone enjoying the mortification of _that_. 

All things considered; Draco is rather grateful they don't do the whole apology thing the normal way — he'd take a patch of heavenly pancakes over an excruciating conversation any day. Especially with the rarity sweet breakfast food is for him. 

Draco carefully doesn't think of the waffles he had just yesterday — for dinner, no less. His father would definitely disapprove of that. Harry had claimed that waffles are by no means limited to breakfast and that, with the right attitude, waffles can be eaten and enjoyed all times of the day. He proved it, too, rather spectacular and with more waffles than was probably wise, but Draco has no doubt that his father does _not_ have the attitude required. If Draco were foolish enough to tell him, he would frown and question Draco's sanity, not only based on his choice of food but also the ridiculous timing. 

In fact, Draco is certain his father would object against _Harry_ , citing everything else as evidence for Harry's bad influence. Draco doesn't want to hear him say it, knowing he would is bad enough. 

They should probably talk about that. Draco doesn't exactly want to keep this — whatever _it_ is, really — hidden from his father, but he also knows perfectly well that if his father knew and had his way, there would be nothing to keep secret anymore. He would never allow Draco to see Harry again. It's a conundrum Draco doesn't want to face right now, not when there are pancakes to be eaten. He does have his priorities. 

* * *

Monday evening

(8:47) _did you know that you are named after a constellation?_

  


(8:47) Of course I did, I’m not stupid. 

(8:47) Is that your attempt at distracting me from my overbearing and invasive father? 

(8:48) Because if you wanted me to stop complaining about him you could have just told me. 

  


(8:48) _sorry, of course you know_

(8:48) _because you are so smart_

  


(8:48) Flattery will get you nowhere.

  


(8:49) _this is where you are wrong, flattery will get me everywhere_

  


(8:49) When I said 'distract me', I didn't mean for you to insult me. 

  


(8:49) _but it's working?_

(8:49) _don't worry you don't have to answer that_

(8:50) _I already know I'm charming_

  


(8:50) I didn't intent to stroke your ego either. 

  


(8:50) _yes, right, of course_

(8:51) _going to distract you from the fight with your dad you don't want to think about_

  


(8:51) You aren't helping at all. 

(8:51) You get one more chance before I stop answering. 

  


(8:51) _thank you for your trust_

(8:52) _let's see then — do you like the ocean?_

  


(8:52) I do. I live near it, actually. 

  


(8:52) _amazing! I'm so jealous_

(8:53) _we used to, too_

(8:53) _I was really young when we moved though_

(8:53) _after that I had to drag my parents to the sea on every holiday to get my fix_

  


(8:54) Past tense?

(8:54) I'm sorry, that was insensitive. You don't have to answer that. 

  


(8:54) _oh they are fine!! don't worry about it_

(8:54) _past tense because I'm old enough to finally be allowed to go on holiday with friends and they don't need as much convincing_

  


(8:55) So what about the ocean is it that fascinates you this much?

  


(8:55) _normal stuff, I guess_

(8:55) _I love the water, for one_

(8:56) _I like swimming and diving and laying around lazy in the sun_

(8:56) _what's not to love about it?_

  


(8:58) Can I tell you a secret? 

  


(8:58) _of course_

(8:58) _tell me all your embarrassing secrets_

(8:58) _give me your soul piece by tiny piece_

  


(8:58) I think I changed my mind. You can't be trusted. 

  


(8:59) _nooo_

(8:59) _I promise I'll keep your secret_

(9:59) _I won't say a word to anyone_

(9:59) _Your secret will die with me_

  


(9:01) I can't swim. 

  


(9:01) _that's really not what I expected you to say_

  


(9:01) Are you laughing at me?

  


(9:01) _I swear I'm not_

  


(9:02) Why am I not convinced by that? 

  


(9:02) _okay yes, so I'm laughing at you_

(9:02) _It's just not what I expected_

(9:02) _I thought you had something big and shameful to confess and all you have is that you can't swim_

  


(9:03) Is my secret — my greatest shame that no other human alive knows about — not exciting enough for you?

  


(9:03) _not it's not_

(9:03) _you are being overly dramatic and you know it_

  


(9:04) This makes me fear to learn what you might consider an appropriate secret. Do I dare ask what your deepest secret is?

  


(9:04) _you couldn't handle the answer, sweetheart_

  


(9:04) That was an exceptionally condescending use of endearment. They are supposed to express affection, did you know that? 

  


(9:05) _why thank you, I try_

(9:05) _you know, if you were here, I could teach you to swim_

  


(9:07) I thought you don't live near the ocean.

  


(9:07) _oh thank everything holy, I thought I scared you off!_

(9:07) _also, ever heard of pools, genius?_

(9:07) _although I would have absolutely zero objection to taking you to the ocean_

  


(9:07) You would seriously do that for me? 

  


(9:07) _of course, we would have so much fun_

(9.08) _I can almost see it already, endless days of laying in the sun_

(9:08) _you would read these pretentious books you like, fancy sunglasses to glance over in a sceptical manner, one inch of sunscreen slathered onto you so you don't get burned and stay as pale as a little porcelain doll_

  


(9:08) I should never have told you that. Being pale used to be a sign of wealth, you ignorant fool 

  


(9:09) _not ignorant, I knew that already because you told me before_

(9:09) _it meant that you could afford enough slaves to send out and do the work for you while you stayed in the shade_

(9:09) _you were very smug about that_

  


(9:09) Look who is being smug now. Remembering what I told you isn't all that impressive. 

  


(9:09) _sure you can say that_

(9:10) _I know you like it though, I bet you're smiling_

  


(9:10) So what are you doing at this imagined holiday we are never going to go on?

  


(9:10) _I see what you are doing there, very smooth_

(9:10) _I'll bite though, you are welcome_

(9:10) _well, since I promised I would teach you to swim, obviously that is what I would do_

(9:10) _I would let you read your books and might even bring you something to drink so you don't shrivel into a raisin_

(9:11) _and then I would drag you into the ocean_

(9:11) _not if you keep insisting, we won't actually get there though_

(9:11) _I might take offence at that_

  


(9:12) I apologise, I take your little fantasy very serious, of course. 

  


(9:12) _you better do, or you are not invited_

(9:12) _I would have to run away all alone — what kind of sad elopement would that be?_

  


(9:14) You want to elope with me? 

  


_(9:14) yes, to a beach with perfect weather and beautiful sunset where no one could find us unless we invited them_

(9:14) _I thought I was perfectly clear_

(9:15) _as long as you want to, that is?_

  


(9:16) Yes, I think I would like that. 

(9:16) I do have some conditions to ensure the books safety, of course. And I object to being compared to a raisin, even in terms of preventing to resemble them. 

(9:16) Actually, I refuse any and all fruit, though especially dried ones. 

  


(9:17) _this running away thing is going to need a lot more planning than I thought_

  


(9:17) Luckily, I have nothing else to do right now. 

  


(9:17) _what a coincidence, neither do I_

(9:17) _alright, send me your list of conditions_

* * *

"What do you mean, you have never baked anything?" Harry asks outraged, as if Draco refusing to stain his clothes with flour and spend his time waiting in front of the oven with nothing better to do but make sure nothing catches fire is the greatest offence of his life. It's kind of cute, the outraged disbelief about something one might call trivial. 

That would be a grave mistake though. Draco knows baking is important to Harry, for him to be this ignorant is a grievous offence indeed. Harry told him about learning it from his neighbour, a woman who has long since given up teaching her myriad of children and was delighted to teach Harry instead. Draco is sure Mrs. Weasley would be proud if she could see Harry now, hands on his hips and frowning at Draco's great shame. 

"I mean what I said, I never baked a thing in my life." Maybe he really should have told Harry when he rambled on and on about the great pleasure, he finds in preparing cakes and decorating biscuits and surprising his loved ones with home-made pastries. Maybe Harry wouldn't look as aghast if Draco hadn't subtly kept his own habits to himself and instead listened and teased and dreamed about getting Harry to bake for him. Of course, then he wouldn't only have missed the joy of seeing Harry passionate about this, but he also wouldn't have gotten to see his face at the revelation. And Harry's flabbergasted face truly is worth a little reprimand. Not that Harry quite got there yet, he is still mostly incredulous. 

"That settles it then, we are baking." 

That isn't quite was Draco imagined coming over. He thought they might make use of the empty house for … other things. Pansy was rather more frank about what Harry could have planned, inviting Draco here and announcing his roommates wouldn't be there until late, and while she said _many_ things and cackled when they made Draco blush, she didn't predict he would be forced to bake. 

Harry doesn't wait for him to answer, already swirling through the kitchen and pulling out countless boxes and complicated looking devices that, if he is being honest, intimidate Draco. This is why he never tried to bake before. He doesn't even know where he would start. What Draco needs here is a recipe, steps and instructions to follow. If only he couldn't figure out what they are making — 

"What are you still standing there for? Go on, measure the flour." Harry gestures vaguely towards the counter before disappearing back in the cabinet, searching for more things. Because apparently _this_ is not enough yet. At least he gave Draco directions, something clear and simple to do. Measure the flour. Draco can do that. He totally can. In fact, Draco is determined to make this the best thing Harry ever baked, just to show him. 

Finding the flour is not difficult, surprisingly. Neatly labelled in a handy, stackable box. Someone took great care to organise that pantry. Actually, _measuring_ the flour though, well, that's a completely different matter. The box is shut tightly. Really, _really_ tight. Draco doesn't know if it says more about the quality of the box or the insufficiency of his strength, but try as he might he doesn't get the thing to open. He pulls and he tears and he checks again for some sort of lock — just to be sure, just to see if he didn't miss some obvious and glaring magical opening mechanism — and the lid doesn't budge an inch. It's all rather embarrassing. And frustrating; so frustrating. The only saving grace is that Harry is still stuck head-first in that cabinet. The last thing he needs is for Harry to witness his mortification.

It sounded so easy, measure the flour, no one even _mentioned_ the absolute impossibly of _getting_ to the flour. But Draco can do this, he can. He has the box right here and the scales are over there, standing in wait and perhaps taunting him. All he needs to do is to _open_ — Draco is covered in flour. Literally _covered in flour_. He holds the box in one hand, the lid in the other, everything shrouded in a slowly settling cloud of flour. 

Harry is staring at him, mouth open in the picture book expression of surprise. This is horrible. Dreadful. Detestable. It's humiliating and appalling and Draco needs to — Harry is laughing at him. Full on, clutching the counter for support, laughing. And Draco is still standing covered in flour, gaping and confused. 

This is ridiculous. Harry is laughing, flour is tickling in his nose and Draco suddenly doesn't care anymore. Harry is beautiful, bright and joyful, utterly intoxicating. Draco doesn't stand a chance at resisting the laughter bubbling up in him. 

Laughing at himself is not something that ever came easy to Draco. Laughing in general, actually, not since his mother died and his father started with his crazy — well, that doesn't matter, Draco doesn't want to think about it. More important is that Harry changed that, even more so than Pansy had. He made Draco laugh with quick texts consisting of bad puns, with his dramatic antics (clearly inherited by Sirius, Draco did some research in his family history and discovered the disgraced Black heir, quite the scandal at the time) with his unapologetic enthusiasm and the free smiles he doesn't even try to hide. Harry barged into his life like an explosion of colour and joy and Draco never wants him to leave again. 

Draco laughs. He is covered in flour and he _should_ be embarrassed and dreading the complicated cleaning this will need, but he doesn't. Instead he joins Harry in his laughter and — because the bastard looks far too smug all pristine and unblemished — Draco dunks the rest of the box over Harry's head. <hr>

The kitchen looks a right mess, a battlefield telling of bitter enemies joining forces to produce the biscuits now safely baking in the oven. Harry still has flour in his hair, sugar on his face and stains on his shirt Draco would rather not contemplate too closely, but he is smiling brightly and Draco doesn't care that he probably looks exactly the same. Actually, no, he _likes_ that they match, that no one seeing them could doubt the mature food-fight that happened here. 

Harry claims he won, of course, but Draco maintains that since they didn't agree on any rules or conditions a winner can't be determined. The only solution is a rematch with predetermined rules and a clear goal for the winner to accomplish, obviously. 

Since there is no official winner as of now, the kitchen is still a disaster, with neither of them particularly eager to get cleaning. Harry keeps insisting that he _won_ and thus cannot be condemned to clean-up duty, which is not only wrong but also irrelevant because Draco, as the _guest_ , shouldn't have to do any housekeeping. It's an argument that achieves nothing but postponing the inevitable: one of them giving in and sacrificing himself for the greater good. Draco was content to perpetually run the same circles, until Harry proposed a solution that would settle a winner once and for all. 

"You want to do what?" Draco doesn't like this break from the script at all, not with that wicked smile on Harry's face that promises ominous things to come. 

"Rock, paper, scissors — surely you’ve played it before? The concept is really simple, one of us counts to three and then —" 

"I _know_ the rules." Pansy made him play, she called it a drinking game as an excuse to get spectacularly wasted without having to talk about what needed talking about before a more comfortable level of intoxication was reached by them both. "Fine, let's play then. On the count of three —"

Harry, just like Draco, is incredibly competitive. If the improvised fight with consumable goods wasn't enough to tip Draco off, this would have done it. Very serious eye contact, the stakes high, both turning over a million strategies and trying to analyse the other. Draco is counting and he is thinking, changing his mind and thinking again, settling on paper. Harry looks like a stone man, simple and effective and — it's scissors, Harry chose scissors. 

Draco has no time to fully accept that when Harry starts cheering and bowing to an imaginary audience. And Draco, well, Draco never liked losing, especially not when it means cleaning this mess with Harry lording over him. A distraction is in order. 

Harry, thankfully, is fairly easy to distract. All it takes for Harry to forget about the hated cleaning is give him something better to think about. And, on the risk of sounding conceited, kissing Draco is surely one of the best things he could do. 

Draco’s phone chimes just when he starts getting lost in Harry and he seriously contemplates ignoring it. He might just have done that, if he didn’t know how relentless Pansy can be — she isn’t going to stop until Draco acknowledges her. Even knowing all that it’s difficult to break away from Harry, not only because of the growling protest and the grabbing hands but because Draco doesn't _want_ to talk to Pansy if he could be kissing Harry instead. Perhaps, if he answered her and promised to call as soon as he’s able, she would leave him alone. 

“Just a moment, love.” Draco moves only as far away as absolutely necessary to reach his phone. He didn’t expect Harry to stay this close and press kisses along his neck, but he certainly isn’t going to complain. 

Pansy doesn’t want anything of importance, gossip about some new gift from the pitiable bloke who is infatuated with her, a rude reminder of how late it is, further information on the gift — and the time. 

It’s almost 7pm, Draco needs to hurry home if he doesn’t want his father to ground him for a month. Which he doesn’t. It would make seeing Harry infinitely more difficult. 

“I’m so sorry, I completely lost track of time.” Draco is already collecting his things, acutely aware of how late he is and unwilling to see Harry’s disappointment. Draco knows this is less than desirable, he will make it up to Harry. Some other time when he isn’t about to be eviscerated by an overly concerned father. 

“Trying to avoid cleaning-up duties?” 

By now Draco is half out of the door, but he turns around again. He doesn’t want to leave when Harry thinks this is anything but what it is — an attempt to keep his father from interfering even more with his life. 

“No! I promise there is nowhere I would rather be —” 

Harry chuckles, clearly not as upset as Draco thought he is. Harry is _teasing_ , insolent prat that he is. Draco desperately wants to stay. 

“It’s alright, go appease your father, before I change my mind about letting you leave.” 

The kitchen still looks like a bomb exploded in here, the biscuits already smell heavenly, and Harry is smiling at him. Not the broad, dazzling smile he uses to talk Draco into stuff he should stay far away from; not the wicked, knowing smirk that makes Draco equally nervous and excited; not the polite, absent-minded smile when he doesn’t follow what Draco is talking about but doesn’t want to interrupt him. This is a small smile, private and soft and _loving_. 

Draco can’t help kissing him again. 

So, what if he’ll be late? He can deal with his father as long as he gets a little more of this, a little more of Harry. 

* * *

Draco always loved grand romantic gestures. They are dramatic and public and — if they are really good — life changing. It's not the same as _love_ , not a substitute for loving your partner every day and showing it in the small ways that actually matter. No, romantic gestures are a loud proclamation for the entire world to hear, exorbitant and overdrawn. 

However, Draco never realistically expected he himself would be the recipient of a romantic gesture. And on the rare occasion that he indulged fantasies, he never pictured anything quite like this. Not this dark, not this isolated. But then, he also never pictured _Harry_. 

Harry, who almost smashed Draco's window with stones before doing the normal thing and texting him. 

Harry, who waved at him like a maniac, his enthusiasm infectious and getting Draco to wave back at him for an unseemly long time before coming to his senses and sneaking out to meet him instead of shouting through the night like cavemen. At least it's highly unlikely, due to the darkness and late hour, that someone saw their mimic of Romeo and Juliet. It's not a moment Draco wants to share. 

Harry, who grinned at him and proudly presented the biscuits they baked earlier today, claiming he couldn't possibly eat them alone before somehow convincing Draco to come here. Draco is terribly aware they trespassed onto private property — at least Draco is pretty sure the botanical gardens aren't government property, not that it changes the fact that they are not supposed to be here — and ignored every rule and guideline in stepping over the pre-trotted paths and climbing into the flowerbeds. Harry clearly planned this corruption of Draco's morals, heading directly for the best place to sit, elevated just enough to not be kneeling between the flowers without losing the atmosphere they provide. Even of Draco didn't have a soft spot for the gardens, Harry's obvious care and thought behind this illicit nightly kidnapping is endearing. 

Far too endearing, in fact, for Draco to know how to react to any of this. There are not enough awfully cliched romance movies to prepare Draco for all Harry offers him so easily. Standing here in the moonlight with Harry feels like an entirely different world — full of overwhelming possibilities and emotions Draco doesn't know how to handle. 

"You hate it, don't you? Pansy said you would but I was so sure you would like this. I'm sorry, we can leave —" 

Draco kisses him. He doesn't know how else to stop the rambled panic, everything he might say laughably insufficient. Besides, he grew fond of kissing Harry. Distressing quickly, if he were to think about it, but irrevocably fond nonetheless. 

"I love it, stop fretting, Potter." 

Harry still looks a bit dazed and — unless the light is playing a cruel trick on Draco — blushing. 

Draco doesn't think he has ever seen Harry blush before, and he likes to think that he would remember _that_. It suits him, flushed and wide-eyed, and Draco resolves to make him blush more often. 

"Wait, you talked to Pansy?" Draco didn't know that. He isn't sure he likes the two of them talking behind his back. They both know more than enough to completely mortify him, bringing them together cannot possibly end well for Draco. 

Draco doesn't know what his face is doing, but Harry is laughing at him now. Which is the least reassuring thing he could do. Whatever Pansy told him; Draco will have to make sure that she won't be able to _ever_ tell Harry anything again. 

"Look who is fretting now, Malfoy." 

Draco doesn't have time to protest this before Harry drops a quick kiss on his nose, winks at him, and lets himself fall back onto the blanket. 

Draco really misses the blush now. The all-knowing smirk is far more unsettling. 

“Oh, come on, don’t be like this.” Harry sits up again. Still not as serious as the situation warrants, but better. “She stole my number out of your phone to send me some very threatening texts. That’s all. Would you sit down already?” 

Draco doesn’t plan to, he really doesn’t. This is a major invasion of his privacy that he should have seen coming, Pansy being _Pansy_ , and just because they didn’t yet exchange the most embarrassing stories they can think of, that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to never do it. So no, Draco has no intentions of sitting down. He is going stubbornly stand here to make his point until Harry swears he won’t — Draco is falling. 

Correction: Harry is pulling him down, that bastard, clinging to Draco’s waist and dragging him onto the blanket. 

It is deceitful and devious and Harry is laughing and he is warm and comfortable and — Draco wanted to be mad! This is hardly fair. How is Draco supposed to be angry when Harry is playing with his hair and everything smells of biscuits and flowers? 

“There, isn’t this better?” 

It _is_ better, but Draco has some last pathetic strands of his righteous wrath to hold on to. He isn’t going to let Harry charm his way out of this. Especially not since one could argue that, by forcing Draco onto the cold hard ground, Harry made the situation worse instead of better. (One would be wrong, this is infinitely better than standing around and frowning, but Harry doesn’t need to know that.) 

“I love the stars, did I tell you that?” 

Harry _did_ tell him that, Draco vividly remembers the discussion over whether they are a beautiful mark in the sky or silent memorial for long dead suns. 

Draco doesn’t actually believe the stars are dead, though it’s a completely valid theory, but since discovering how easy it is for him to talk Harry into a huffing mess, Draco found immense pleasure in exploiting his new-found powers. It’s thrilling, knowing exactly which buttons to push, having that much control. Harry trusts him with that power, and Draco uses it responsibly to make him agree to basically anything. 

Riling Harry up in person is even better than via text — because Draco can _see_ his eyes sparkling, can feel Harry’s entire focus settling onto him and only him, could kiss the irritation away and give in to the near magnetic pull Harry exudes without even trying — but Draco is content right here, nestled onto Harry’s chest with his hands idly tracing over Draco’s back. 

Draco doesn’t mention any of that, instead he makes a vaguely questioning noise into his neck and nuzzles closer. 

“Did you know that you are named after a constellation?” 

Draco has to smoother a laugh at the sudden question. Asked like this, somewhat absent-minded and when Draco isn’t irritated with the entire world, it is far more endearing. Even if yes, Draco knew — and not because Harry already told him either. 

“Yes darling, believe it or not, I actually did know that I am named after the stars.” Lulled into complacency as he is, it takes Draco far too long to realise what he just said. 

_Darling._ Draco doesn’t call people _darling_. He suffers through Pansy’s excessive use of the word without objection, but that is as close as he gets to acceptance. 

(It doesn’t matter that he _liked_ calling Harry that, could grow used to making an exception for him, because Draco’s mind on the subject is quite made up. Besides, even if he _were_ to _possibly_ consider it, the prospect of Harry changing him so much, so fast, is … unsettling.) 

Harry only hums. Blissfully unaware (unobservant, one might say if one was feeling wrong-footed and vulnerable) or doing the considerate thing and pretending Draco didn’t make a fool out of himself just now. 

“Padfoot used to tell me all about the myths they are named after. The one good thing his family taught him; he claims. Then Moony usually calls him melodramatic and talks about physics and astronomy. Because I can’t ' _grow up on nothing but myths and fairy tales, look what it did to Padfoot_.'” Harry laughs and it echoes all the way through his chest into Draco’s and down to his toes. Draco likes it. He wants Harry to laugh more often. 

“Their bickering is one of the things I miss most since moving here. Don’t tell them I said that, but I actually forgot most of the things they told me. Which is totally not my fault, though. I’m convinced this was all an elaborate set up so they would have an excuse to argue over the same things they always argue about. It’s a tradition, if you want.” Harry is so obviously fond of his uncles, Draco aches for how much he misses them. Even if he didn’t know them, after Harry’s words he can practically _see_ them, sitting on a patio under the stars, blind to everything but the other. Draco has seen them get lost in each other before, too young to put the words to it but already understanding what they mean to each other. 

Now that Harry brought it up, Draco misses them. Moony and Padfoot, these ridiculous names! One time, after Draco heard Harry call his father Prongs when he was exasperated, Draco decided he needed a nickname for his own father as well. After some very hard thinking and discussing possibly names with the peacocks his father kept in the garden for some time, a stroke of genius hit him: Pokey. Pokey, the peacock. 

It was silly and horrifyingly bad, but Draco was so proud and excited when he told Harry, spitting the words out before fully explaining, desperate to share and hear Harry's thoughts. Harry was too kind to tell him the name was stupid and Draco got a few years of calling his father Pokey, until he was old enough to realise it for himself. His father, miraculously, not once objected to the name, not when Draco was the one calling. 

They really ought to visit Harry’s family soon, Draco wants to see them all again. 

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t offer you any reliable astronomical facts, but I do know quite many myths. I could tell you, if you want?” It’s an intimate thing to offer, far more so than Harry has any chance of reasonably realising. 

His mother taught Draco about the stars, part of his Black-Family-Heritage, she called it (the stars and his tendency for dramatics, to be exact, but Draco adamantly refuses to acknowledge that). Since her death there has been little talk about stars in his life. Not that they were a frequent topic before, but they definitely always were a possibility, present. The stars never seemed more out of his reach than after she died. His father doesn’t care about them, not beyond a quick acknowledgement of their objective beauty when pestered long enough. Pansy only knows enough to make scathing comments on people who believe in astrology, unwilling to learn more about them. And looking at the stars alone, all by himself, just makes him feel lonely. 

But with _Harry_ , he wouldn't be lonely. Harry brings Draco closer to the stars and, in some ways, his mother, than he was in a long time. 

“I’d like that. Tell me about your star?” 

That is not what Draco thought he would say, not at all. He probably should have expected it though, talking about stars and the Draco constellation, plus Harry never does what Draco thinks he would. Yes, this one is on him. 

The thing is, Draco doesn’t like talking about this. His mother's family, the Blacks, they choose the names they give their children carefully, with intend. Names have meaning, they hold weight, and have to be meticulously considered. There is no possibility that his parents named him Draco solely because they liked the sound of it. Draco struggled a lot with that, once he decided to look deeper into his name than the vague dragon association. He wished he didn’t, after that, but by then he knew and it was impossible to forget. 

Draco never really told anyone, not about the stories or about the ominous way it makes him feel. Because it’s ridiculous and he shouldn’t care about ancient myths. But then, no one ever really asked, either. 

Until Harry. 

So, Draco tells him. He tells him of glorious heroes that slay vile dragons, and Harry doesn’t say anything but he does pull him closer. They myths used to scare him, like a bad omen hovering over his life, but with Harry here, Draco never felt safer. 

* * *

“Pansy called while you were gone.” 

Draco freezes. He curses silently, smooths his face into a mask of curious interest, and turns back to face his father. This is getting harder every time he is forced to do it. 

They meet increasingly often like this, staring at each other over the empty space of the living room, neither of them conceding enough steps to find some middle ground. More than once Draco considered pretending he didn’t hear, taking that last step into his room and shutting his father out for the rest of the night. After all, he tried to sneak back in again. As in, _without_ his father noticing him. As in, coming from a date with Harry and not wanting to have to deal with an interrogation. As in, experience the rebellious-teenager phase Draco seems to have skipped, leaving him woefully unprepared to hide a boyfriend he kept secret to avoid judgement. 

His father finding out _now_ would only make things worse, harsher judgement and more lectures on all the points where Draco made a wrong choice. Draco wouldn’t like that anymore than his father, so he does the considerate thing and hides and lies and hopes his father doesn’t realise that lately whenever he claimed to meet Pansy, he met Harry. 

“She asked whether I had seen you today. Apparently, you had plans to meet for lunch that you failed to fulfil.” Oh no, Draco isn't prepared for his father finding out yet. 

Going by the icy fury permeating the air — how long did his father stew in here, waiting for Draco to return while adding a few new paragraphs to his I’m-very-disappointed-in-you lecture? — Draco was correct in his assessment of how he would take the news. It’s hollow satisfaction, he really hoped he was wrong. 

Looking back, Draco should have known the Pansy excuse wouldn’t work forever, couldn’t possibly. Actually, it’s a miracle it worked as long as it did. And Draco was too naively happy to realise their time running out. They could have come up with something better, something his father would never discover. Using Pansy was just so very convenient, the obvious solution to the looming questions. Draco didn’t need to invent countless abstruse reasons to be gone most of the time (which would have inevitably led to getting caught in the web of lies he himself spun, everyone knows that) and his father didn’t worry that Draco might neglect his and Pansy’s friendship. 

It happened before, when they had that vicious fight full of pouting silences over something trivial Draco had already forgotten while he still swore his revenge. There was an intervention and phone calls to Pansy’s parents to discuss how to proceed. It was very mortifying, would have been bad enough if Draco was still a small and adorable toddler at the time and was made worse by how very much, he _hadn't_ been a toddler anymore. Neither Draco nor Pansy want to go through _that_ ever again. 

So yes, all things considered, Pansy as a cover worked quite neatly for everyone. 

Until she called here, that is, and basically announced the deception to the last person on earth who should find out. She didn’t even have the good grace to warn him. 

“Tell me then, Draco, where have you been?” This is it; this is where Draco makes his choice. He doesn’t have to say anything, or he could tell his father the truth. 

On one hand, Draco is sick of hiding. He doesn’t want to have to sneak out to see Harry, doesn’t want to feel like what they are doing is wrong. He wants to be able to invite Harry in and maybe even introduce him to his father, wants to talk about him and go on dates that don’t have to be cut short to keep their cover. 

On the other hand, his father would not take kindly to this. There might not be screaming, because they are still Malfoys and thereby more dignified than to submit to the base instinct of giving anger room, but there are things worse than screaming. He wouldn’t be allowed to see Harry again, that is for sure, and most likely not Pansy either. Even if Pansy came here to make absolutely sure he is indeed meeting with her and not Harry. Draco doesn’t want to think beyond that stage, which privileges would be the next to go. 

There is no way to win. So, Draco avoids. 

“I’ve been to the cinema, a boring movie with more explosions than talent —” The movie was indeed horrible, Draco complained all the way back while Harry let him ramble on with an indulgent smile. His father is less patient than that. 

“ _Who_ were you going to the cinema with?” 

Right, that much for avoiding then. Maybe he could invent some stranger he met on accident and who — no, trusting strangers might be worse than hiding a boyfriend. 

Draco is abruptly tired. He doesn’t want to do this anymore; think around his father’s ridiculous rules and defend every tiny choice he makes. He is old enough to take care of himself, and he is far from stupid. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a disobedient child. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” There, he said it. The words feel like a weight is lifted off him, endorphins cursing through his veins and everything is crystal-clear for a moment. 

His father is speechless. That alone is worth whatever consequences he can come up with. Lucius Malfoy always knows what to say, is always in control and is never once caught unawares. Until now, that is, and Draco has the sudden manic urge to laugh. This is wonderful. 

“I would advise you to talk to me with more respect, young man.” 

Now Draco actually _does_ laugh. As if such a half-hearted attempt at intimidation could make Draco cower anymore. It might have worked so far, but Draco is _done_ trying and he is too elated to think about what happens after. 

“ _I_ would advise you remember what you used to tell me — what was that, respect is to be earned?” Draco doesn’t recognise himself anymore. This is a new version of him, someone braver and more reckless who speaks all the things that Draco kept pushed down for too long. It’s freeing and intoxicating and Draco couldn’t stop if he wanted to. 

“How _dare_ you? I am your _father_ —” 

For _that_ argument Draco has absolutely no patience, strained already as it is. Besides, looking at his behaviour these last years, calling him Draco’s father is either extremely generous or nothing but habit. 

“And a great job you are doing of it, too. Keeping me caged in here, never letting me go outside. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?” Every time Draco had to suppress his anger, when he swallowed the words and bowed his head — _this_ is what it all led to. Every time he had to cut dates with Harry short, that Pansy looked at him with pity because of some social tradition he missed, every vaguely disapproving look his father gave him — what was it all good for?

“I’m trying to protect you!” 

The things people do under the guise of protection. They call it love and don’t have to face the ugly shades their actions wear. It disgusts him. 

“Oh, like you protected mother?” The words are out before Draco consciously chose them, surprising both of them. 

They don’t talk about her, neither about her life nor about her death. It’s an unspoken agreement to let the past rest because everything else would be too painful. Draco pretended to be fine, to have moved on. It got easier once he had no tears left. Crying, he learnt, was harder to hide than the growing bitterness and resentment. 

Sometimes Draco thinks he shouldn’t have been relieved at the change; tears might leave his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but at least they don’t fester. 

His father has gone pale, like Draco physically hit him with breaking the silence. He looks like he did when they got the call, when they spent every day in the hospital so she wouldn’t be alone when she woke up. His father always looked half dead back then, before he decided they mourned long enough and it was time to pull themselves together and go on alone. 

“That isn’t fair.” Even his voice is thin, barely above a whisper and trembling. 

It makes Draco furious. Sanctimonious, is what it is. 

“You want to talk about fairness? What isn’t fair is that _she_ had to _die_ because of _your_ mistakes!” Draco is full on screaming now. When did that happen? 

“I didn’t kill her! You can’t seriously think I would ever do that to her — that I would even be capable of doing that. I _loved_ her; she was the best thing in my life!” His father takes a deep breath, visibly tries to calm himself. Hides every emotion Draco broke out of him. 

Draco wants to shake him, wants to see the ragged edges where he _feels_ something for her. Draco long ago came to hate the learnt apathy. 

“It was an accident, a horrible, tragic accident that I wish every day hadn’t happened.” 

Draco knows that voice, there is no talking to him like this. His father isn’t listening anymore. Bodily he still stands there, perfectly poised and pleasant, but he might as well have left the room. The conversation is over, just like that. 

Draco refuses. He is not talking yet. There is too much he never dared to say. 

“You took her off life support! You stood by and did nothing but _watch_ as she died!” He remembers the day his father set him down to explain that they wouldn’t drive to the hospital anymore, that he thought long and hard about the situation and that he made a decision. That many people would be at the funeral and that Draco would have to be strong for that. That his mother wouldn't have wanted for him to cry. 

From there on Draco was careful not to show signs of weakness, not to anyone. Because that is what she would have wanted, what his father needed him to do. 

“The doctors said it was almost impossible that she would ever wake up again. Do you really think staying in that bed would have been what she wanted?” It’s practised, no emotional reflection required. Draco almost asks, is that what he tells himself to sleep at night? 

“If you are so sure you did the right thing, then why didn’t you tell me? Why did you keep it a secret and took my chance to say goodbye?” He doesn’t even care about the answer all that much, at this point it’s all rather predictable. 

His father clearly thinks he is some kind of hero here, protecting his beloved son from the cruel world after his wife was taken from him in an unpreventable accident. He did all he could and continues to do so for his son, shielding him and urging him to stay where it’s safe. 

Stories never hold up against reality for very long though, and Draco has a very different view on what happened. Draco wants to see that glimmer of emotion again, tangible proof that his father suffered from her death just as Draco has, that he loved her. 

“Because I wanted to spare you — I wanted to _protect_ you.” 

Draco scoffs. The line is even less convincing when delivered like this, cold and distant. 

“You keep saying that, maybe you shouldn't have killed my mother then. I think I would feel much safer with her.” Draco can’t stop poking, goading him. He feels so close to some answers, so close to the change he desperately needs. 

“For the last time — it was an accident.” Liar. Flatly intoned, stare miles wide away. Draco needs better than that. 

“A _car accident._ You know she didn’t like to drive and you forced her to anyway. She never would have gotten into that car if it weren't for you. She never would have been involved in that ‘accident’ if it weren't for you. Turn this however you want, but if you hadn’t been so obnoxious about needing something from the store, she would still be alive.” Draco thought about this a lot, but it’s the first time he confronted his father like this. Confronted him at all, actually. This is not how he imagined confronting him, angry and helpless and screaming at someone unreceptive to the world. But, if he sells this right, his words will haunt his father forever. “I hope whatever you wanted her to get was worth her life.” 

“That’s enough! Go to you room.” 

Finally, a crack of emotion, fury breaking over his father’s brittle walls and towering over Draco. 

This isn’t what he hoped to see, not at all. There is no reasoning with wrath, no sympathising or understanding to be found. There is only screaming back to match the anger, going up higher and higher until someone breaks. Draco expected better from his father. 

It’s like he is removed from the situation, not himself all of the sudden anymore, but an ignorant bystander looking in on their life. This is what they call a revelation, he thinks, a moment of frightening clarity. 

Draco is disappointed, all his anger left somewhere in the void between him and his father and nothing left to give. All the things he never said, the bitten off questions and doubts turned inwards, Draco gave it all. And he got nothing back. Absolutely nothing, cold facts and anger. 

He doesn’t know what he expected — for his father to see reason? That they would talk about his mother’s death and finally find their way back to being happy? Ridiculous. 

His father has nothing to offer him but this, an empty house he is chained to by rules designed to keep him separated from the world. 

Draco spent long enough here, subjecting himself to noxious isolation and his mother’s restless ghost. It’s time to leave it all behind, no reason to stay. 

Draco does the only thing he can think to do: he texts Harry. 

(8:39) Do you remember when you promised to elope with me? 

(8:39) Does the offer still stand? 

* * *

The world is going down. Thunder and rain, the occasional lighting bold illuminating the scene. It's a glorious spectacle of nature’s forces. Seeing this, Draco understands how people could sacrifice all they had to soothe angry deities. 

Draco is soaked down to the bone, shivering miserable and constantly fighting against the wind. It's not quite what he imagined for his impulsive and reckless running-away-from-home, though really, it's rather fitting now. Striking out in a blaze of fury and roiling thunder, a sense of adventure keeping up the adrenaline in his veins. Draco is finally leaving here; he doesn't care if this entire place drowns in a tempest. 

"Harry? Where are you?" Draco is growing impatient. He wants to _leave_ , wants to be free, but Harry still isn't here yet. 

They agreed to meet here, an hour ago when Harry told him he had the perfect plan to get away. Draco packed everything of importance, viciously shoved down the doubts and sentimental musings that threatened to grow and stop him and he came here. To the shore. To meet Harry. To run away together and start their new life. 

But Harry isn't here. Draco texted him, called him, screamed his name into the wind. He is alone. 

Alone on the edge of the world, the centre of the storm. 

There is still no sign of Harry, no missed calls and no dark figures, and Draco doesn't know how long he has been looking anymore. He should find shelter. It's the only thing that makes sense, find some place dry to stay and form a new plan. 

Draco is not giving up, _he's not_ , because everything is better than returning home. This is just a small inconvenient interlude, that's all. Harry clearly ran into some complications but he will be here shortly and then they can leave. The last thing they need right now is Draco being stubborn and stupid and breaking his leg stumbling over something in the darkness. 

He might know this cliff well, but he also heard the whispered stories of forlorn souls wandering the place where they fell to their death. Draco has no intention of joining them. This is the beginning of his life, not the end. 

There is an old shack somewhere here, built dangerously close to the edge and said to be haunted. It's not, of course, though Draco knows the efforts a group of very much human and alive boys went to, to make everyone _think_ this shack is a gathering place for malicious spirits of all kinds. 

James could always be counted upon telling another story, Sirius didn't even need the incentive of being asked, and Remus might not brag as openly but he is just as involved, just as proud. The Marauders. Really, with people who call themselves _that_ in town, Draco doesn't understand how anyone could seriously believe ghosts were responsible. But they knew what they were doing and the shack is still avoided, apart from the occasional dare. 

Now that he thinks about it — Harry knows of the shack, too. In fact, Harry was the one to bring Draco here first, show him around and tell him how they created ghosts here. Harry must be there, he _must_. Draco doesn't know what the plan was, not exactly, but he is sure the weather crossed it. Yes, that must be it. That's why Draco couldn't find him, why he didn't answer Draco's calls, the bad phone connection out here is infamous. Harry will be there; Draco is sure of it. They can spend the night there, sheltered from the storm and safe with each other.

It's the promise of Harry's arms that makes Draco realise how exhausted he is. Rain splatters down onto him, wind tears at his clothes and the cold is settled somewhere deep in his bones. Draco is tired, and he wants nothing more but to join Harry where it's warm and dry and be held by him. They can conquer the world tomorrow, now Draco only needs Harry. 

The first sight of the shack almost makes him stumble from relief. Only a few more steps, everything he wants is waiting just on the other side of the door. Draco practically falls into the house. 

It's dark inside, not as warm as Draco hoped either. But he is out of the rain, at least, and once he found Harry the cold won't be a problem anymore. A human furnace, that one. Draco always appreciated that; it comes in handy in surprisingly many situations. Not always as dramatic as this one, of course, but any excuse to cuddle Harry is welcome. 

Harry isn’t in the kitchen, which makes sense since it’s hardly a comfortable place to set camp. He isn’t in the living room either though, which makes less sense because it’s by far the biggest room and it has a fireplace. An empty, cold fireplace. Draco doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the bad sign that is. Harry simply didn’t find anything to burn, the rain drenching everything and nothing for that purpose stored in the shack itself, and if there is no fire, he has no reason to be here. There is still a bedroom after all, tiny and mouldy but a full room, and even a bathroom. There is no need to panic just because he didn’t find Harry in the first rooms he looked in. Harry is here, Draco is sure. He just needs to find him. 

Harry isn’t in the bathroom either. Which is fine, totally fine. Would have been awkward to interrupt him there anyway. And there is one room left. The bedroom. Of course, Harry is there. Sleeping, probably, as any sane person would be in the middle of the night. Granted, the bed is more likely to provide a nasty infection than restful sleep, but Harry is fearless. He’ll be there, peacefully asleep. He must be. 

Draco is almost afraid to open the door. Ridiculous. Whatever waits behind that door is there regardless of his awareness. Besides, it’s only Harry. Draco came all this way to find him, stopping now because he doesn’t dare to open a door is not an acceptable possibility. 

Draco is going to open this door, he is going to find Harry on the bed, and he will feel very silly for having doubted him. Then he is going to lay down next to him and fall asleep to his breathing. And tomorrow they will get far away from here. In 50 years, they can look back on this day, maybe sitting on the porch of their own little house at some other ocean, or perhaps huddling close together against a window and watching a storm just like this one, remembering their first one together. 

If only Draco would open the door already. 

Right, on the count of three. Deep breath, head high, straight posture. It’s just a door, Malfoy, nothing but a particular shaped piece of wood. 

_One._ This is beyond laughable. Draco could be snuggled against Harry right this moment. 

_Two._ He has made Harry wait long enough, there is no sensible reason to still be standing out here. 

_Three._ Draco opens the door. 

The room is empty. Completely, disappointingly empty. 

Harry isn’t here, isn’t sleeping in the bed, isn’t hunched over the dingy table. There is nothing but stale air and dust waiting for Draco. 

Harry isn’t here and Draco doesn’t know what to do next. 

“Harry? This isn’t funny anymore, Harry!” 

No answer. Not that Draco expected one. But hope is a stubborn thing, little impressed by facts. 

Draco checks the rooms again, every single one of them empty and cold, Harry nowhere to be found. He tries calling him again, despite the miserable reception out here. 

Nothing. 

Harry didn't come. 

Draco was so sure he would, he didn't even question it. Harry said he'd be here, that he would meet Draco and take him away — Draco believed him. 

Did Harry lie? Did he ever actually plan on keeping his promise? 

Draco can't bring himself to think so low of Harry, that he would purposefully lead him on. Because that's what it would mean, every word a lie, every promise false. It would mean that Harry is laughing at him right now, at foolish, lonely, little Draco, desperate to fall in love and willing to believe almost anything to make that happen. 

Is that what it was?

No, Draco refuses to believe that. Harry would never do that, not to anyone and even less to Draco specifically. Harry got held up, that's all. 

He will be here tomorrow, they can still have their lives, still have their new start. 

* * *

Draco never felt particularly strong about the ocean — it was there, it didn't bother him and it didn't call to him. But Harry made it more than a large body of over-salted water, Harry gave the ocean possibilities and future. Looking at it now, Draco can't feel impassive. He remembers that Harry loves the ocean, visiting it whenever he can, planning holidays and dates for them at these shores. 

Why didn't they ever go on those dates? Draco doesn't know, but they'll have to do that as soon as possible. 

Harry didn't answer any of his calls, didn't read his messages. Draco is running out of explanations. Sure, phones get lost all the time and the weather yesterday wasn't exactly ideal for going outside, but Draco should have heard of him by now. He didn't. 

Instead he has a few messages from his father, calculated and precisely measured to express the socially-expected concern while making it abundantly clear he is the one owed an apology here, not indulging Draco's _juvenile rebellion_. Draco had laughed at that, juvenile rebellion indeed. 

Pansy showed no such restrained, practically drowned him in messages demanding all kinds of information. Draco didn't read them, not all of them, but enough to decipher the pattern. More than enough, and only because he needed the distraction, otherwise he would have ignored her. But with Harry missing he thought he would rather read hollow assurances of regret. They were quickly overshadowed by frantic questions and demands to at least tell _her_ , as if she proved worthy of sensitive information like that. 

He tried to be angry at her, actively and burning, anything as long as it meant to stop worrying about Harry. It didn't work, of course, Harry is too important to just shove aside. Draco is angry, sure, hurt and betrayed and so angry, but it fades in comparison to Harry. 

Needless to say, Draco didn't sleep well. If at all, he remembers tossing and turning all night, listening to the noises of the storm passing over and the ocean clashing against the shore. Mostly he was wondering what Harry was thinking, laying in his own bed and _not_ here with Draco, not how he promised. 

The moment the sun began to raise, Draco fled the shack, the memories, the towering thoughts of Harry taking up all the room and crowding against him. He thought the endless openness of the sea would help. He was wrong. In reality, all that could help is Harry, preferably in person but Draco would even be satisfied with a text right now. 

All he got, however, are numb legs from sitting on them too long and too many Harry connected ocean musings. 

Maybe he needs a walk, something to do besides staring at the horizon and be, in turns, bitter and worried because Harry didn't take him there. He would go back home, knock at Harry's door and drag him back here to go far, far away, if only it wouldn't feel so much like defeat. But if he goes back now, Draco fears he isn't coming back. Dreams once started shouldn't be put on hold. 

Though isn't that exactly what Harry forces him to do? Here Draco is, walking up and down along the water like a caged animal. He better have a good excuse for not only making him wait but also disappearing when — Draco stumbles over something, losing his balance and landing face first in the sand. 

This is what he gets for keeping his eyes on the sky, no attention on his feet. The sand is still damp, clinging to him uncomfortably cold. Draco is starting to actively dislike the ocean, Harry won't like hearing that. Good, the bastard deserves some bad news after putting Draco through this. Still, even with this new-formed dislike, Draco deserves something really nice for that, _and_ he gets to hold this over Harry's head for the rest of their lives. 

That settled, Draco needs to get up before the sand becomes any more comfortable. He might not have slept for more than an hour, but falling asleep right next to the ocean is tempting fate. And Draco doesn't have time for that. 

Draco stands up less elegantly than he hoped, clumsy and trying in vain to get rid of the sand all over him, searching idly for what brought him down. It's not really important, call it bored curiosity if you will — Draco screams. 

A body. Draco stumbled over a human body. 

How did he _not_ see this before? How did he miss _someone lying dead_? 

Draco can't see much; the back, mostly. 

A dark coat. 

A mop of black hair. 

A pair of combat boots.

It's a man, he is sure.

The man is eerily familiar. 

Draco feels sick; nauseous. 

This can't be happening. Draco is overreacting, scared and desperate and imagining things. That night alone in the shack must have affected him worse than he thought. Because this is impossible. Draco _refuses_.

Harry isn't dead. Harry isn't lying face down in the sand, washed up by the ocean. 

Not Harry. Never. 

Draco can't look away. 

He _wants_ to, wants to run away and not stop running until he knocks on Harry's door and holds him in his arms. Reassure himself that Harry is _there_ , breathing and alive. That he isn't dead. 

But Draco can't move. He can only stare as horrible certainty comes over him. 

Draco can't leave him here. He has to know first. He has to be absolutely certain. 

He _has_ to. 

Draco's hand shakes as he reaches out. He watches himself as if in trance, as if it's someone else sitting here on the beach, not knowing what to do.

The body is heavy. Dead weight. The word suddenly becomes more real. But he doesn't stop, can't, turns the body over. 

Harry. Unmistakable.

Draco wants to throw up. 

He snatches his hand back as if burned, backs away as if he could escape the truth. 

Harry. Dead. 

Draco doesn't comprehend it. 

He wants some explanation for this, for Harry's beautiful eyes empty and unseeing, for his body void of his energy. Harry. Draco desperately wishes it weren't.

The body doesn't feel like Harry, wet and clammy and cold. Draco yanks his hand back. He didn't realise he reached out again. 

Distantly he is aware that he should be crying. He should be wailing and demanding justice, should do anything but _stare_. 

Draco doesn't think he fully understands it yet. That Harry is dead. That he won't ever talk to him again. That he won't hear him laugh again. That they won't take this holiday at the ocean. 

How cruel. Harry loved the ocean. Now it took his life. 

Fate is ruthless, Draco thought he knew that already, but _this_ , taking Harry from him — Draco didn't realise so much cruelty could exist. 

Harry is all he has, his first thought waking up and his last one falling asleep. Good things feel better when shared with Harry and bad things aren't so bad when Harry is there. 

Draco _lived_ since he met Harry. 

He didn't even realise how restricted his life was before Harry showed him the way out. His life was dull and grey and built on enough walls to form a cage. 

Draco doesn't want to go back to that, to a life not only without Harry but with a giant hole where Harry should be. Draco can't possibly stay here, not after everything. 

But he can't leave either, not without Harry. What kind of future would that be, doing alone what Harry promised him they would together? A hollow mockery of their dreams. 

Draco _does_ feel like crying now.

Harry. He is too still, in every sense of the word. 

Draco knows this suffocating stillness, he felt it once already, when his mother died. The shadows never really went away.

Until Harry, that is. 

It wasn't quite this bad, either. Not quite as heavy, not as oppressing. 

Draco won't recover from this, he is certain.

There is no one who could possibly lift the stillness Harry left. 

Draco doesn't want to live like this, not anymore. A life without Harry isn't worth living at all, not for Draco.

There is only one thing left for him to do, only one way out of this.

Draco never felt strongly about the ocean, not before Harry gave it meaning. He can feel it call to him now.

If humans really do have souls, Harry's is in the ocean. Draco already spent more time without him than he ever wants to again.

The ocean never felt this welcoming, like coming home. With every step Draco takes he comes closer to Harry. 

  



End file.
